I grew up in a home lovingly filled with books; there were books in every room. Books defined who we were. My mother was an educationist and Father was a civil servant and a rising writer. He spent whatever time he could snatch from his busy life, reading and writing. But there was no designated study or workplace for Father as the house wasn’t big enough.

My fondest memories as a little girl are going with my father to this big bookstore, The Universal Book Company, and spending hours in the children section, while Father browsed the shelves stocked with an array of literary stuff. Father ended up with a bundle of books and always bought me a few as well.

After the launch of Shabkhoon in 1964, there was a flood of Urdu journals in our house. There were adabi risalay [literary journals] such as Nuqoosh, Funoon, Seep, Shair, Tehreek, Kitaab and there were magazines such as Beeswien Sadi and Shama. Many of these came from Lahore and Karachi but a fair number were from Mumbai, Patna, Lucknow and Hyderabad. I looked forward to the Urdu journal Khilona, which I read with enjoyment.

When Father was transferred from Allahabad to Lucknow, his luggage consisted mostly of books (he was staying at a furnished place, the State Guest House on Kalidas Marg). Eventually, he moved to a house in River Bank Colony, and his book collection began to grow dramatically.

Lucknow had way more bookshops than Allahabad. There were Urdu bookshops in the old city. I remember that the Urdu bookshops had an air of solemnity about them. The atmosphere was subdued, not inviting for youngsters like me. There were hardly any books for young readers of Urdu. (Father bought me a collection of Premchand’s short stories, Prem Pachchisi).

There were many used-books stores and lending libraries in Lucknow. In Hazratgunj, Lucknow’s elite marketplace, a favourite spot was Hobby Corner, a used-book store right in the middle of the exciting lane of shops called “love lane.” Love Lane was a narrow alley, it was a covered market, an upscale version of the garrbarr jhala, bustling with shoppers. The air was fragrant with perfumes sold from kiosks.

Kundan jewellery sparkled in brightly lit glass cases, chikankari kurtas floated from clothes hangers. And, where you least expected, a wooden step-ladder was tucked away, besides a shop selling costume jewellery. One climbed up the ladder hanging on to the flimsy bannister and reached a wonderland of books. You could browse, buy and borrow books to your heart’s content.

Every Sunday, there was a used-book market at Nakkhas in the old city. We would go there. The books were displayed on old bedsheets, sometimes jute bags and tarpaulin. One had to sit on one’s haunches to survey, make selections and bargain, if one were buying a whole bunch of books. Occasionally one found a gem, such as a first edition or an old out-of-print book.

Books began to accumulate in big piles at the River Bank house, because there weren’t enough bookshelves. The rented house, as I remember, was rather sparsely furnished. This time, when Father was transferred, it took weeks to pack up his books.

The Delhi house in Dev Nagar was quite large. My mother bought bookshelves among other furniture from Panchkuian Road, a market exclusively for furniture of all kinds. Books soon outdid the book shelves. Father’s book collection was wide-ranging — literary criticism, anthologies of poetry and fiction (Urdu and English), novels, detective fiction, classical literature series, encyclopaedias, rare dictionaries and so on.

He loved reading detective fiction and, for a while, the genre of horror stories. He collected book series just like all serious book aficionados. Anyways, surplus, superfluous books were carried back to the Allahabad home, where they began crowding bookshelves.

And so the story goes, till we reach Father’s retirement from government service. Almost the first thing he wanted to do was to have a library of his own. Construction began on the first floor of the Allahabad house. His plan was to have two rooms and a hall. The first room would be his study, the second a guest room for visitors and the hall would be lined up with racks to house his library.

It was a mammoth effort to carry the books upstairs, but was done. The office was furnished and an air-conditioner installed to combat Allahabad’s fierce, hot summers. An artistically calligraphed name plate in Urdu adorned the entryway to Father’s library.

I will skip some details here to get to the point. Father, though a young 58 at this time, had heart disease. He was exhausted from climbing up stairs several times a day. Despite the air-conditioner, the room became quite hot in summer. The hall was unbearably hot, even as fans whirled the air around. The mighty, dust-wind called the “loo” pounded the windows, depositing layers of dust on everything. There were water issues in the bathroom.

In the end, Mother, concerned about Father’s health, insisted that he move downstairs and make the drawing-cum-dining hall his library. Once again, books were carted. But this move, afforded Father yet another opportunity to sift through the enormous collection. Fiction, detective novels and other less literary stuff remained in the hall upstairs. A good number of books were donated to libraries and individuals who were pleased to have them.

Father’s desk was set up in the erstwhile drawing room; books carefully curated according to subjects were arranged. Mother always arranged for helpers to tackle such projects. Father took to the computer quite early. A separate desk with his desktop computer was installed. Surrounded by his beloved books, he finally had a space that suited him. One large wall-cabinet was stacked with dictionaries — there must be at least 50, some very old and rare Urdu and Farsi language ones. Another large cabinet was devoted to Ghalib, one to Iqbal; Mir had one big shelf, and so it went.

Literary criticism occupied an entire wall. Father arranged his favourite art, photos and calligraphy artistically on the wall space. His desk had the most interesting artefacts brought back from his travels. There was (still is) one photo from his childhood on his desk, when he was barely five years old, where he is standing close to his father, with two other siblings. The ambience of the library was scholarly but friendly.

The library became a favourite place to hang out. Father received visitors there. Darjeeling tea, brewed in an elegant teapot with matching cups, would be served several times during the day. Discussions on esoteric subjects and interviews were held there.

As Father resettled in Allahabad after retirement, the house and, by default, the library became a hub of adabi guftagu [literary discussions]. Once again, the books began to outgrow the space. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were built; the library acquired a new look. It was here that Father wrote his magisterial novel, Kayi Chaand Thhe Sar-i-Aasmaan.

My mother’s passing in 2007 was a major landmark in the library’s history.
[To be continued]

The columnist is professor in the Department of Middle Eastern
and South Asian Languages and Cultures at the
University of Virginia in the US. X: @FarooqiMehr

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, October 6th, 2024